villanelle

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you’d return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

—  “Mad Girl’s Love Song” by Sylvia Plath

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you’d return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

—  “Mad Girl’s Love Song” by Sylvia Plath
A Poem Few Can Understand

Dear friend, it seems tomorrow is the day;
at three, I said, some anonymous place,
and please remember I was led astray.

A siren’s voice that, full of you are wanted,
formed an image, taloned yet with gleaming eyes.
Dear friend, it seems tomorrow is the day,

so I’ll meet you there, then within an hour
you’ll know everything there is to know,
and please remember I was led astray.

A siren’s voice. Yes, close enough. But I
was small before the first, and trapped.
Dear friend, it seems tomorrow is the day,

I swear to god I’ll tell you, for this poem’s
not enough. Nobody could read this right.
Just please remember I was led astray.

It’s midnight, and, through this, tomorrow
has arrived. I’m here, I want to tell you.
Dear friend, it seems today will be the day,
but please remember how I was led astray.

Letter to the Living

We left our souls outside to dry,
Too drenched were they and tied
To all the woes falling from the sky.

No more were we allowed to cry
For the guilt of all we held inside.
We left our souls outside to dry.

Such pains became our alibi
No longer exposed or opened wide
To all the woes falling from the sky.

And still we’re left to wonder why
we cannot find solace in what we hide.
We left our souls outside to dry.

Still, we must learn how to fly
above the current and rising tide
to all the woes falling from the sky.

The time has come for us to die.
Beneath the earth will our flesh reside.
We left our souls outside to dry.
-To all the woes falling from the sky.

Rat Race

It’s a rat race running through the rain,
A chorus of shoe clicks down damp streets.
It’s a puddle march, an umbrella parade.

We keep shifting, shoving as time escapes,
In restless silence. No one speaks.
It’s a rat race running through the rain.

I know, now, why only the stagnant break
They stand still, tied to their heavy feet.
But this is a puddle march, an umbrella parade.

Puddles fill with ripples of disdain.
In those broken streets; everybody’s
Rat racing running through the rain.

We are lost in a sick-cycle high speed chase,
Backwards-running forward on our feet.
Time never stops; make you no mistake.

We chase time because time is never late.
Time is but a warrior as we approach defeat.
It’s a rat race running through the rain,
It’s a puddle march, an umbrella parade. 

Arms

where your heart was born
in the darkest breach
even stars look worn

from the deep ground torn
gold and green mice flee
where your heart was born

petal points adorn
where no sun can reach
even stars look worn

not one voice to mourn
that no eye can see
where your heart was born

lucent bodies shorn
on a littered beach
even stars look worn

sea birds drift forlorn
in the coral tree
where your heart was born
even stars look worn

C-Day 10: Villanelle to the Escape

Arise the sun and ope the gates!
we are young and fruitful boys,
for she does always staunch the ache.

She clasped a darling blue chipped plate
her eyes all lit upon her toys.
arise the sun and plea the fates!

hold closed the cold. the sun. the hate.
the candied sayings, oh how they cloy.
for she does always staunch the ache.

she quoth the moon. the dew she made.
the grassy meadow is all a ploy.
arise the sun and ope the gates!

while you are free. run fast! escape!
the winds are blowing down the shore
for she does always staunch the ache.

she oft a tempting thinker take
run fast and fleet and don’t be coy!
arise the sun and ope the gates!
for she does always staunch the ache. 

Mad Girl's Love Song

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead,
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary darkness gallops in.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed,
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head).

God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:
Exit seraphim and enter Satan’s men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you’d return the way you said.
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head).

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head).

Another Art

- after Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing is impossible to master–
[Elizabeth, you shan’t have lied]
– nothing lost brings no disaster.

I have lost and left, further and faster;
[Elizabeth, you do misguide]
but the art of losing is impossible to master.

Even my first dear, I lost– ask her!
[Elizabeth, you know I tried.]
Nothing lost brings no disaster.

I lost six countries and three bodies vaster,
and can say now, open-eyed,
that the art of losing is impossible to master.

I lined my tongue and teeth with aster
but Elizabeth, it all has dried.
Nothing lost brings no disaster.

   I did survive (did I not?) the loss of my love caster–
[Elizabeth, I must confide–]
   Perhaps, the art of losing is not impossible to master.
   Nothing, lost or not, can bring disaster.

I Dreamt of Dying

Until the light of morning’s breath
(the taste of murder haunts my sleep)
I stay awake and write of death.

Falling into the black’s dark depth-
further and further in the deep-
until the light of morning’s breath.

The world’s collapsed, there’s nothing left
except the fear of falling dreams;
I stay awake and write of death.

Tortured from the secrets I’ve kept
and there are thousands more to keep.
Until the light of morning’s breath

this pen’s confessing my regrets
in the gray blood of fading ink;
I stay awake and write of death.

The reaper whispers solemn threats,
I can taste the grave on my teeth,
until the light of morning’s breath
I stay awake and write of death.

youtube

It is Week 5 of Dial-A-Song. This week’s song is Hate the Villanelle. Yes, the lyric is a real villanelle.

I build a birdhouse of this villanelle, 
Founded on the roots of darkness my own.
Lines, broken lines to guard this prison cell;

Rhymes, vivid rhymes to trap the tongue swell
— must not call to the winds already blown—
I build a birdhouse of this villanelle. 

Come unforgiving beaks, pick apart my sickened shell;
She is gone. I hide in vain, all alone—
Only broken lines to guard this prison cell.

In these tercets, in dismay, here I dwell
And set out traps for one more night to hone;
I build a birdhouse of this villanelle. 

This last quatrain— a winged unhinged hell— 
is, in this forest, my reticent throne. 
I’ve built a birdhouse of this villanelle;
Lines, broken lines now guard this prison cell.


A collaboration between myself & the wonderful whenalionroars

Dying Words

“I must go in, the fog is rising.”
          — Emily Dickinson 
… 

My days are numbered and I’m feeling weak
The sickness has come to take my soul
My nights are dreary; the future is bleak

I have given up on all that I seek
For it no longer seems as if I’m whole
My days are numbered and I’m feeling weak

I threw my possessions into the creek
(Four rose petals rest within the shoal)
My nights are dreary; the future is bleak

Skin scaling red with a flush in my cheeks
Blood running black, heart burning in hot coals
My days are numbered and I’m feeling weak

Fuel is consumed, the tank has sprung a leak
The mind, my engine, has lost all control
My nights are dreary; the future is bleak

Please listen to these words I try to speak
Write them in script upon a will, a scroll
My days are numbered and I’m feeling weak
My nights are dreary; the future is bleak

In Midnight Hours - Villanelle Poetry

In midnight hours ‘tis what I see:
The blurry shadow of your face,
This pleasant nightmare haunting me.

What would I give awake to be
When countenance so fair I gaze,
In midnight hours ‘tis what I see.

Imagination’s detainee -
The form that does me so amaze,
This pleasant nightmare haunting me.

The pain did take your wings as fee
But never will you lose your grace,
In midnight hours ‘tis what I see.

What would I give the one to be
To set anew your eyes ablaze,
This pleasant nightmare haunting me.

Your beauty never left but she
Shines brighter for each tear I trace,
In midnight hours ‘tis what I see:
This pleasant nightmare haunting me.

As He Was Falling

Which burned him worse—the wax or sun?
As Icarus dropped to the sea
with both his wings and hope undone. 

Just barely had his flight begun;
he’d but imagined he was free.
Which burned him worse—the wax or sun?

He thought false feathers could outrun
all, begged the waves to leave him be
with both his wings and hope undone.

What let him think that he had won;
what left him wild with breathless glee?
Which burned him worse—the wax or sun?

For then he fell, while ‘round him spun
his remnant feathers like debris,
and both his wings and hope undone.

Did icy cold of ocean stun
him after daylight’s warm decree?
Which burned him worse—the wax or sun—
with both his wings and hope undone?